


Achilles Achilles

by OuterSpaceQueen101



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Getting Together, M/M, Mercedes Teamates, One Shot, Racing, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:27:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27874585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OuterSpaceQueen101/pseuds/OuterSpaceQueen101
Summary: He is a God, a Titan, a myth made into legend. He has reigned supreme for nearly a decade. A rule punctuated by record-breaking races and unforgettable wins. He is the son sworn to bring forth rapture, and yet in the young man's hands, he is clay.
Relationships: Lewis Hamilton/George Russell
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	Achilles Achilles

He is a God, a Titan, a myth made into legend. He has reigned supreme for nearly a decade. A rule punctuated by record-breaking races and unforgettable wins. He is the son sworn to bring forth rapture, and yet in the young man's hands, he is clay.

In the testament, the holy readings, the oldest book known to man, the pages whisper of gods and knights and great wars fought on long since leveled fields. Great swathes of land made fertile after nearly a millennia of near-constant bloodshed. Of boys who became men at the steps of death's door but refused to go gently into the sweet, sweet night. The great book whispered of heroes born of battle and blood. Of men who would not yield.

He is not made of paper and words, he is blood and sinew and raw and breakable. But he is also a man born of steel and battle, and he does not kneel. Through sickness and through pain. He does not back down, he does not slow.

For a decade he ruled. From a triple-tiered throne. For a decade he rules alone until suddenly, he does no more.

On a brisk morning in Australia, the king's throne begins to topple. For the first time in a long time, he's looking up, looking up at the man, showering champagne down on him. The man, if he can even be called that, just a boy really, smiles at him, just for a second, for just a moment as the two men lose each other to the celebration.

Lewis keeps waiting for the burn of loss to hit, to knock him to his knees like a warrior at the edges of defeat. He keeps waiting to be crippled in the fall out of the death of a nation. But the pain doesn't come. Not the searing, jolting, burning pain of loss. Nor the sweet, but even more deadly pain of loneliness that he's come so accustomed to here, at the top.

He goes to bed wondering if maybe, now, he isn't really on top anymore and further, if just maybe he could get used to the company. The next race, he reclaims his crown. He smiles, he cheers, he is every bit the victorious general, leading his men forth once again. He is clapped on the back by countless men adorned in his very own colors. He is paraded and celebrated and the young upstart has once again been rightfully demoted to at least a step below him.

Atop the podium, they both are the picture of glee. They are winners, one more so than the other in ways other than the obvious. And yet, that night, neither of them go to bed happy. Both wrestling their own demons. Purgatory is a close friend to both of them. But the boy still has time- he can still learn to avoid this hell.

It's too late for him, a solitary titan all alone in a hotel room as the world passes him by. He goes to sleep with the sky, his knees red and hues of blue from long hours praying for a better future. Even at the top, he vows to do better, for the first time in a long time, his crown stands to be threatened.

For two more races, he brings glory to his people. For miles, flags in his colors are raised high and proud. He is the promised leader. His prophecy rings true. He stands atop the world, his throne uncontested. When the press asks him what it is like to be at war, not only that but to be winning, he elaborates with tales of battle and hard fought victory. His smile promises victory, his mind tells a different story. One in which he lives a different life. That of a damsel in distress. The point is not that he is in distress, rather that he wishes to be saved and taken far, far away from this world.

Once he found victory in the chase, now he finds only predictably.

He is a teller of fortunes, for he knows how this will end. It will end at the top, as it always does.

For three races, he gives up believing, begins to believe he's lost his chance. But then, three races since his throne was shaken, he finds himself on a low step once more. Finds himself looking up at the man, not even the man. A child.

That night he takes him to bed. Men in his bed are nothing new to him. And yet this man who is barely that takes him apart so skillfully that Lewis is left reeling in the afterglow. They fall asleep in each other's arms, warmth mixing like the languages of old. Individually, they are known, household names, and yet, when put together, they are angels, beautiful, victorious, and loved by all.

In the morning. The man pulls away. Shock and the color of roses decorating his face. Hamilton simply pulls him back to bed. Insisting upon his need for at least another hour of sleep. George barely puts up a fight, soon, they are fast asleep once more.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm posting this at one am so it may be gibberish. The point is I have a lot of feelings about George driving for Mercedes this weekend and this is how I'm coping.
> 
> Anyway thank you for reading!
> 
> Comments and kudos make my week ❤
> 
> Stay safe please!


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